My Favourite Holmes
by Ashtrees
Summary: A series of Sherlock one-shots based on my favourite adaptations and pastiches. Chapter Two: From The Veiled Detective. Sherlock has killed a man. Why?
1. The Doctor's Case by Stephen King

**The Doctor's Case**

By Stephan King

Lestrade was unusually happy for a man who required the help of Sherlock Holmes. He was undoubtedly one of Sherlock's few friends, but he only came to Sherlock when he was desperate and if Greg Lestrade was desperate then the investigation must be going very badly indeed.

But, not that day. Not on that cold, wet and windy day, the kind of weather which made most people miserable.

"It's a locked room murder, Sherlock!" he called from the living area door, grinning wildly. "Come on, let's go!"

Sherlock was immediately suspicious of the detective's cheery mood and so he consented, for once, to travelling to the crime scene in Lestrade's car, along with John.

"So, what's going on, Greg?" John asked, staring out of the window at the grey clouds overhead. "What's made you so happy?"

"Yes, do tell us," Sherlock added, glaring from the passenger seat.

Greg nodded. "The funny thing about this case is that Lord Hull left some small bequeaths in his Will. Some to his cousins, aunties. Oh- and you're going to love this, Sherlock, - ten thousand pounds to Mrs Hemphill's Home for Abandoned Pussies!"

"What?" John cried. "You're joking!"

He caught the Inspector glancing back to Sherlock, as if to measure his reaction. But, if he was expecting Sherlock to laugh, then he was disappointed.

"I see," Sherlock said, quietly. "Now, I understand. I think I'll go home now."

"What?" John said again. "How can a home for cats have anything to do with a murder? Not even you can just solve a case like that!"

"I agree," Greg said, nodding with forced seriousness. "You're going to have to see the crime scene for yourself, Sherlock. It's how you work after all."

Sherlock made a low growling sound.

"Am I going to sneeze, Inspector?" he said, spitting out the words.

Greg put on a voice of sweet innocence. "Yeah, often and loudly, I think."

Sherlock groaned. "How many?"

"Ten," said Lestrade with a fiendish grin.

Ooooooooooo

John couldn't help but find it funny that Sherlock had a severe allergy to cats. As soon as they stepped inside the house one large, ugly tomcat latched itself onto Sherlock, rubbing itself against his legs.

After only a few minutes Sherlock's eyes were streaming and his face was blotchy. His sneezes could be heard on the other side of the house.

While John felt sorry for his friend it also presented him with the unique opportunity of a spotting a clue that Sherlock hadn't seen through his blurry eyes. And so for the first and only time, Dr John H Watson solved a mystery before Sherlock Holmes.

"I missed something," Sherlock moaned thickly, a tissue pressed to his nose. "Me! I should have seen it!"

"Don't be silly!" said John. "With all these cats around I'm surprised you can see anything!"

"Yes. Anyway, well done, John. You did brilliantly."

John smiled. Those words meant more to him than the thrill of actually solving a case.

Sherlock began sneezing again, while his new cat "friend" twined itself happily around his legs. "Let me out of here," Sherlock said, and bolted for the door.

_Thank you for reading._


	2. The Veiled Detective by David Davis

_Based on a scene in The Veiled Detective, a novel by David Stuart Davis. He is the author of several Sherlock Holmes novels and once the editor of Sherlock Holmes: The Detective Magazine._

**The Veiled Detective**

Sherlock returned to the flat late that night. I noticed immediately that he was far paler than usual and that his eyes were rimmed with red. Without removing his coat or scarf, he walked unsteadily to kitchen where I heard the tell-tale clink of a bottle against a glass. He came back into living room and collapsed into his armchair, clutching a tumbler of whisky in his trembling hand.

"The man is dead, John."

"Strangerson?"

"Obviously," he murmured, tapping his fingers on the armrest.

"How?"

Sherlock reached for something deep inside his coat pocket. After a moment's hesitation he opened his clasped hand, revealing _the _pill bottle, the fire light gleaming on its glass surface. There was only one pill left in the bottle.

"Bad luck decided it," he announced.

My blood ran cold.

"Why?" I demanded, running a hand through my hair. "Why have you gone so far?"

"Because -" Sherlock snapped, his voice was strident with emotion and his eyes looked moist again. He swallowed heavily before carrying on. "It's not fair or right that Hope died before he was able to offer Strangerson the two pills! I made a mistake, John, in hunting down Hope. I should have given him more time to complete his revenge."

"At least then you would have only been party to murder, but now you _are_ the murderer!"

"Strangerson killed Hope's wife and children, John! He was a monster!"

"And so are you!"

Silence fell between us.

I tried to slow my breathing, without much success, unsure what to make of my new flatmate. People had warned me, but I hadn't trusted them. I had trusted Sherlock. I was wrong.

"You could have died yourself," I muttered. "If you had taken the bad pill instead of Strangerson."

"There was no chance of that. I made sure that Strangerson chose first."

"You fixed it? Then it was premeditated murder! No question."

"He deserved it."

"You can't decide things like that!"

"It was justice!" Sherlock hissed.

I laughed harshly. "So, it was an eye for an eye? Rather simplistic for you, isn't it?"

"I agree that it is a simplistic rhetoric, but each case needs to be judged by its own merits. Society and it's perception of crime alters over time. If Drebber and Strangerson had committed murder a hundred years ago, then they would have been hanged! But, no, not today. No, by today's law they would have received a measly prison sentence. The law changes, the crime does not."

"You should have still told Lestrade about Strangerson."

Sherlock snorted. "The police had their chance to do something and they failed! No, Strangerson would have gotten away with it. Not enough evidence. But, where did Hope get that poison? He was a cabbie, not a chemist. There is…a larger presence behind this one." He trailed off, staring into nothing. But, with a shake of his head he came back to living room.

"I know I've done wrong, John, and I'm not proud of it. Look at my hands, they're still shaking. But, here, up here," he tapped his temple vigorously with his forefinger. "I am calm and secure. The rational part of my brain knows that I did the right thing and in keeping with my moral beliefs. I am a stronger man for it. Trust me, John, the world is a better place without Drebber and Strangerson in it."

"So, you've managed to convince yourself that you've done the right thing?"

"And I'll convince you. Unless you're going to go straight to the police?"

I glared at him, angered by his assumption that I would cover for him. But, deep down I knew that Strangerson would have been killed anyway by Hope himself if it hadn't been for the aneurism in his brain, and even if Strangerson had somehow escaped Hope, then it seems (at least, Sherlock was certain), that Strangerson would not have been convicted for his crimes.

"What will you do?" Sherlock asked, softly, staring into the fireplace.

"I don't know," I answered honestly. "Maybe I will tell Lestrade, maybe I won't. But, I'm unsure right now."

Sherlock smiled and stood up, draining his glass. "That's good enough for me. And now I'm going to bed."

He paused by the kitchen partition.

"Thank you, John," he said, quietly, before melting into the darkness of the corridor that lead to his bedroom.

I sat for a while longer in front of the fire, thinking.

I decided that I could not allow neither the police nor Moriarty (because I knew that it was him who was behind this, even if Sherlock didn't) to discover that Strangerson was murdered by Sherlock. That meant I would have to come up with a different version for my blog. Perhaps cut out Drebber and Strangerson altogether.

But, I still couldn't risk telling Sherlock the truth about myself. That I am not John Watson, but John Walker, disgraced soldier and unwilling agent of Jim Moriarty.

Moriarty is blackmailing me into spying on Sherlock, thinking that I am completely his puppet. But, what Moriarty has failed to foresee is that I both like and admire Sherlock Holmes. He is willing to do what other people won't. He gave me danger and brought me back to life.

I knew there and then that I was going to protect him, protect him from Moriarty and, more importantly, protect him from himself.

_A/N: In these one-shots I will have taken some dialogue and descritption directly from the original source, so please bear in mind that some of this will belong to the original authors._

_Anyway, this is my favourite pastiche novel. It skims over the events of the first two novels and the short stories leading up to the events of Holmes' "death". _

_All the while John Walker is an agent of Moriarty and he has to choose whose side he's on. It's obvious, of course, but it still leads to a fun moment of Watson making his choice once and for all, saving Holmes at the last minute. _

_It also gives a clever, but simple, solution as to how Holmes survived his fall. _

_Thank you for reading._


End file.
